「DEPARTURE—11:35 P.M」
The temple courtyard was silent, the air cold. G6 stood by Kira, her movements as she checked the tack were sharp, efficient. The usual fluid grace was absent.
"Are you really leaving in the middle of an ungodly hour, Captain?" Tolentino asked.
"We are. It is a day away from the capital. Time is our enemy." G6 stated. Her voice was a flat line. She did not look at him.
They wore their heavy cloaks again and mounted their horses.
"We appreciate the kind hospitality, Your Holiness." Edmund.
"Oh please, Sir Eddie. It is the least we can do as we cannot thank you enough for your help." Tolentino.
"Enough." G6 said, and urged Kira towards the gate. Her movement was abrupt, a severing.
"Wait up, Captain!" Tolentino said and hurried towards her.
"Please take this, as you are leaving the other parchment with us. We will contact you through this orb." Tolentino said, handing her a small orb.
"It is a private communication orb, only two of us can enter this line." Tolentino added, showing the other pair.
"Alright. Don't hesitate in contacting us when the dead zone appears." G6 said, taking the orb and sliding it to her dimensional vault. Her touch was swift, dismissive.
"We will. Please be careful on your way home." Tolentino.
G6 just nodded. A gesture of termination, not acknowledgment.
The three priests on the side bowed their heads to them.
"Then, I hope our next meeting is not us coming for your heads." G6 said. The words, her usual brand of cruel humor, fell into the night like a stone into deep water. They carried a new and absolute weight. She urged Kira into a run.
Eddie and Zen gave a nod to them, and followed their Captain.
As the Priests and Archbishop Tolentino watched their backs and the sound of their horses slowly distanced, they sighed.
"Looks like she really is going to kill us," Priest Dane muttered.
"Indeed, I didn't expect the rumored spoiled brat of House Worthon is tangled with us." Tolentino replied.
"I don't mind her words," Priestess Kalia said, her voice softer now. "She likes to say mean things sometimes that doesn't really feel like it."
"They were amazing too. I can't believe they are nobles. They fought like veterans." Priest Felon.
Archbishop Tolentino watched his retainers, then the empty road. The darkness where she had vanished seemed to swallow sound and light. "Shall we head back inside? We've got a lot of things to search and study. At least, that's how we can help them if not in combat."
The three nodded and smiled, the expression faint in the moonlight, before turning back to the temple. The courtyard was empty again, save for the echo of a threat that no longer felt like a joke.
❈.❈.❈
Whisper of Gale.
Echo Trace.
Their horses thundered through the canopy of dead silent night, hooves pounding against the forest path. To any outsider, the riders were mere shadows in the dark. But within their ranks, communication flowed as clear as daylight—G6's wind magic weaving their voices together like threads of silk.
"We're being followed," G6 stated, her voice calm, almost bored.
"I sense them as well," Edmund confirmed.
"What should we do, Captain? I count at least five," Zen said, his tone sharp with anticipation.
"Seven," G6 corrected, barely a murmur. Then, quieter still: "Lure them deeper."
As one, they pivoted their horses off the main path and plunged into the forest's black heart. The pace quickened, hooves kicking up dirt and fallen leaves as the trees swallowed them whole.
Behind them, the unseen pursuers surged forward, matching their speed, greedy for the capture.
The trio glanced at one another—a single, silent nod exchanged between hooded figures. In perfect synchronization, they rose from their saddles, standing atop their galloping horses for a single breath... and then they were simply gone.
Not vanished in a flash of light. Not hidden by smoke. Simply gone, as if they had never been there at all.
The seven pursuers burst into the clearing moments later, reining their horses hard. They circled, weapons drawn, eyes wide and scanning.
"Where the hell—" one stammered.
"They were right there!"
The lead henchman—Coen, a grizzled veteran in Viscount Telesco's employ—raised a fist, silencing his men. His eyes narrowed, every instinct screaming trap.
The three horses continued running ahead, then slowed of their own accord, stopping calmly beneath a cluster of ancient oaks. Trained. Waiting.
A cold wind stirred the leaves.
"What's happening, Sir Coen?" a man whispered, his voice cracking. "They just... disappeared. I can't feel anything. No presence, no—"
The words died in his throat.
An aura descended upon them.
It was not merely intimidation. It was a physical weight, a suffocating blanket of murderous intent that pressed down from all sides. Men gasped, some dropping to their knees as their lungs seized. Sweat poured down faces. Horses stamped and whinnied in terror, eyes rolling white.
Coen's hand trembled on his sword hilt. He couldn't move. Could barely breathe. It was as if death itself had wrapped invisible fingers around his throat and was simply... waiting.
Above the trees, a monstrous aura radiated from G6 like heat from a dying star. It pressed down upon the clearing with physical weight—a suffocating, primal dread that made even Edmund and Zen's instincts scream in protest. They could barely suppress the urge to flee, to submit, to cower.
"Kill them," G6 muttered, the words dripping with absolute finality.
"We don't even know what they want yet, Captain," Zen managed, his voice strained against the pressure.
"Leave the brown-haired one." Her gaze, invisible beneath her hood, fixed on Coen with the cold precision of a sniper's scope.
She was not pleased. These unknown actors had dared to interfere in her journey, and her patience—always a thin, frayed thread—had snapped entirely. There would be no negotiation tonight. No interrogation of the rabble. Only the brown-haired man would live to speak.
"What are you waiting for?" G6 turned to them fully, and even through the shadow of her hood, they could feel the shift. Something ancient and merciless looked out from behind those tinted grey eyes. "Scared?"
The word hung in the air like a challenge.
"If this is your order… very well." Edmund drew his sword and dropped from the branch without another word.
Zen lingered for a single heartbeat, then followed.
ــــــــﮩ٨ـ
The seven mercenaries barely had time to register the two figures descending upon them before steel met steel.
Coen's veterans were not amateurs. They had survived border skirmishes, monster hunts, and back-alley executions. When Edmund landed in their midst, three of them reacted instantly—blades flashing, formations tightening.
Clang! Edmund's sword met a mercenary's overhead strike, the impact shuddering through both their arms. The man was strong, trained. He pressed forward, forcing Edmund to pivot. A second mercenary lunged from the side, and Edmund twisted, his cloak billowing as he deflected the thrust at the last possible moment.
Zen crashed into the other flank, his lighter blade a blur of motion. Clang-clang-clang! Three rapid exchanges with a scar-faced brute who matched him blow for blow. The man grinned behind his mask—arrogance, confidence.
"You're fast, but—"
Zen's elbow caught him in the throat. The grin vanished.
Coen himself engaged, his longsword a whistling arc of death aimed at Edmund's spine. Edmund felt it coming, spinning just in time to parry. Steel screamed against steel. Coen pressed, driving Edmund back with a series of brutal, experienced strikes. Clang! Clang! CLANG! Sparks flew in the darkness.
For a moment, it was a true fight—seven trained killers against two hooded figures. Blows exchanged. Ground contested. Blood drawn.
But only for a moment.
Then Edmund stopped retreating.
Coen's next strike met empty air as Edmund flowed around it like water around a stone. His return stroke was not a slash—it was a surgical incision. The blade found the gap between a mercenary's ribs and chest plate, sliding home with a wet, final sound. The man gasped once and collapsed.
Before his body hit the ground, Edmund was already moving. His sword took the second mercenary across the hamstrings—a precise, crippling cut that dropped the man screaming. A follow-up thrust to the base of the skull ended the noise.
Two down.
Zen, seeing Edmund's work, abandoned all pretense of defense. He exploded forward, his blade a comet of pale mana. The scar-faced brute raised his sword to block—too slow. Zen's strike sheared through both steel and flesh, opening the man from collarbone to hip.
The second of Zen's targets tried to run. He made it three steps before Zen's sword took him through the back, the tip erupting from his chest in a spray of crimson.
Two more down.
Four bodies in the dirt. Coen and the remaining two mercenaries stumbled back, their courage evaporating like mist in morning sun.
Coen's sword trembled in his grip. His breath came in ragged gasps. The two men beside him—younger, less seasoned—looked at him with wide, desperate eyes.
"Sir Coen!" one of them yelled, his voice cracking. "SIR COEN!"
But Coen could only stare at the two hooded figures advancing slowly, deliberately. They moved like men with all the time in the world. Like men who had done this a hundred times before. Like men who enjoyed it.
The younger mercenaries broke.
They turned and ran—not at the horses, not toward safety, just away. Anywhere away from the nightmare in the clearing.
They made it perhaps twenty feet.
The first one simply stopped. A blade—G6's blade—erupted from his chest, the point punching through his back in a spray of dark blood. He looked down at it stupidly, incomprehension on his face, before his legs gave way.
G6 stood behind him, one hand still wrapped around the hilt. She pulled the sword free with a wet, sucking sound, and the body crumpled.
The second runner froze mid-stride, his feet rooted by pure, animal terror. He turned slowly, hands rising, mouth opening to beg—
G6's hand closed in his hair, yanking his head back. His scream died in his throat as he found himself staring up into the shadow of her hood. Her face where only her rosy lips were clear, within held no anger. No satisfaction. Nothing at all.
Coen watched, his mind blank with horror. His sword fell from nerveless fingers and clattered on the forest floor. Around him, the night had become a slaughterhouse, and the butchers wore cloaks.
"P-please…" the man begged, his voice a desperate whimper.
G6 did not utter a word.
Her head turned slightly toward Edmund and Zen—a silent command understood without speech. In an instant, they were circling Coen. Edmund's foot swept behind the man's knees with brutal precision, forcing him to the ground with a grunt of pain. Zen's sword, still dripping with the blood of the fallen, found its resting place against Coen's throat.
Still silent, G6 yanked the younger mercenary by the hair and dragged him back toward the kneeling leader. The man thrashed and wiggled, trying desperately to break free from her iron grip, his boots carving furrows in the forest floor. Useless. She might as well have been dragging a child.
She tossed him beside Coen like refuse.
"Why were you following us?" G6's voice—usually a neutral, cold instrument—had dropped to something even more glacial. The temperature around them seemed to dip.
Coen looked away, jaw set. Beside him, the young mercenary shook uncontrollably.
"Hey." Zen's tone was light, almost conversational, but the edge beneath it could shave bone. "When our captain asks a question, it's bad manners not to answer."
"You're getting nothing from me," Coen spat.
Zen's brow twitched with irritation. In one fluid motion, he yanked off Coen's mask. "I'm not going to ask again." The tip of his sword pressed into Coen's cheek—a shallow cut, just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
G6's attention shifted to the trembling younger man. "You. Who sent you to follow us?"
The man's lips quivered. No words came.
"Speak," G6 said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "or forever hold your peace."
Her sword pierced his shoulder—not deep enough to threaten his life, but precisely enough to light every nerve ending on fire.
"AAARGHH!" His scream tore through the silent forest, raw and agonizing. "P-please! W-we were j-just hired! V-Viscount T-telesco!"
Coen's head snapped toward him, fury replacing fear. "YOU TREACHEROUS COWARD!"
"Viscount Telesco?" G6's brow furrowed behind her hood. "Who the fuck is that?"
"The Mayor of Grain Town," Zen supplied quickly. "We were planning to brief you on him. The greedy bastard must have taken interest in our results."
G6 scoffed, a sound devoid of humor. "So a lowly noble sends dogs to chase us?" Her sword shifted, the tip hovering inches from Coen's eye. "You have such beautiful brown eyes. Answer me properly, or I'll paint your world black."
Coen swallowed, his courage a thin, fraying thread. "I don't know what he wants with you. Only that he wants you alive."
G6 looked up at the canopy, exhaled a long, weary breath, and then kicked Coen square in the face. He crumpled sideways, spitting blood.
She turned to the younger man, pressing him against a tree and stepping on the very shoulder she'd stabbed. He screamed again, the sound cracking with agony.
She's not in the mood, Zen observed, watching his captain's uncharacteristic brutality. But we can't let her kill them both. We need to understand why Telesco—
"If I may offer a suggestion," Zen interjected carefully, "let us take one captive. I know a place where no one—not even that woman—can find him."
Edmund caught Zen's subtle glance, the desperate plea in his eyes. "That would be wise," Edmund agreed smoothly. "We cannot allow Viscount Telesco to reach for things beyond his station without consequence."
What the hell are they saying?! Coen's thoughts raced despite the pain. Did that greedy bastard stumble into something massive?
G6 walked back to Coen without a word. Her sword drove into his thigh—deep, through muscle, scraping bone.
"FUUUCK!" Coen's scream was a primal, animal sound.
"Your thoughts are written on your face," G6 said flatly. "It's annoying."
She looked at her men. A long, weighted pause.
"Very well."
She walked to the younger mercenary and leaned down, her hood casting his terrified face in deeper shadow. "You. Run back to Viscount Telesco. Tell him to watch his neck. I might come collecting payment for this disturbance whenever I please."
Hope flickered in the man's pain-glazed eyes. "Y-yes! I will! I'll tell him!"
"But." G6 straightened. "I'm not feeling generous enough for a clean exit. Let's give you a challenge."
Before anyone could react, her blade flashed—once, quick as a snake—and sliced through one of his Achilles tendons.
His scream was the worst yet. He crumpled, clutching his leg as the wound poured blood onto the forest floor, his cries echoing through the trees like the wails of the damned.
"Let's go." G6 sheathed her sword and walked away without a backward glance. "Deliver my message," she called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the darkness. She didn't look back. She never did.
Coen stared after her, then at his companion writhing in agony, then back at the void where the woman had vanished. His face, beneath the blood and dirt, was a mask of horror and dawning comprehension.
We fucked up. We fucked up so badly.
Edmund forced a sleeping potion past his lips. As unconsciousness mercifully claimed him, Coen felt himself being hoisted like a sack of grain, heard the gallop of horses, and knew—with absolute certainty—that his life would never be the same.
The forest fell silent again, save for the sobbing of a crippled man left behind to carry a warning to a mayor who had no idea what he'd just dared to touch.
—To Be Continued…—